


John 4:18

by viceindustrious



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-19
Updated: 2011-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceindustrious/pseuds/viceindustrious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John 4:18

"...so I cannot bear it," Coward says, holding out his wrists. 

His eyes shine like silver in the lamplight, insanity cradled in a gilded cage of love and loyalty and a marrow deep faith that Blackwood is near blinded by. 

"I want you to," Coward says. "Make me beg for it to stop."

"Yes," Blackwood says. 

Coward laughs and crosses his hand behind Blackwood's neck, his smile is part sneer, tilting his head like a carrion bird. 

"I never mean it, Henry," he whispers, pushing his tongue hard against the the sharp points of his incisors. "Please, Henry, oh please, no, no."

He giggles and shakes his head, hair flying around his face. Blackwood slaps him and Coward moans, delighted, stretching up on the tips of his toes and coming back down hard on his heels. He juts his chin out as if to ask,  _again?_  and flutters his eyelashes. 

"You'll mean it," Blackwood says. His voice sounds guttural even to his own ears, clogged up and brackish with a filthy sort of lust, the unwholesome spluttering of candles made from caked blood and beeswax. Coward has torn out his own will and offered it up to him still bright and beating. It's intoxicating, toxic, heady,  _gorgeous_.

"You won't stop will you? I'll want you to stop. I'll want it and you love me but oh, you won't have mercy, will you?" 

"No," Blackwood says at once. 

It's not a lie. Not even a half truth. Perhaps Coward can tell because he doesn't ask again. He kisses Henry, a chaste little peck with pursed lips and then bows his head. 

-

Blackwood binds him naked on the wide stone altar, arms stretched above his head. Coward's stomach is concave, his ribs sticking out as he breathes fast and deep. He's tied tight with coarse hemp that's already rubbing pretty scarlet rings around his wrists. The flex of Coward's arms are purposeful to make the rope bite into his flesh, writhing on the granite like a worm on a hook, a beautiful sinuous offering of muscle and skin bared all for him. 

The crucible glows beside him. 

"Now?" Coward asks, shifting his hips restlessly. 

Hungry plea in his voice, Coward's cock lies thick on his stomach. Blackwood strokes his hand up Coward's calf and then digs his nails into the plump pad of flesh below his knee. 

"Patience," he says. 

He picks up the long piece of metal beside him. It looks, suitably enough, like a sprinkler for holy water. Here is Coward, his sacrificial lamb, ready to be anointed. But Coward's value far outstrips the lacklustre blessing of an inferior godhead to his own. 

Blackwood dips the aspergillum into the pot of molten silver, then raises it over Coward's body. He starts a slow, steady rocking of his wrist. The silver falls like little pieces of heaven. 

And Coward begs.


End file.
